On the outside, things seemed fine. Jiyong could force normalcy — he tried all the exotic foods Zitao introduced him to in Guangzhou, stopped himself from seeking out the city’s dingiest corners to hustle, even tried his best to talk to Zitao’s friend Yifan in the little Mandarin he knew. In their darkest days yet, it was nice to see that Jiyong could still make Zitao smile in these small ways, see that childish glimmer of hope brighten his perpetually dark eyes. But deep down, Jiyong knew he was only killing time before he would have to scratch a growing itch inside; it was an itch that had always been in him — inherent, dormant enough that he’d been able to hide it even from Zitao, and still frightening when symptomatic. He’d scratched at it in the past, manifest thoughts of blood and violence when sajangnim had sent him out with his explosives. But months had gone by since he’d been given that chance of release, and his insides turned. He threw up the food in the bathroom, fantasized about wrapping his fingers around Yifan’s throat whenever he rolled his eyes at his poor Mandarin. Little things would divide his attention between what he should have done and what his body was aching to do; it should have scared him that they were starting to mold into one cohesive thought.
It would happen that his past stumbled in just when he was at his worst. Zitao had gone out for the night again, and this left Jiyong dangerously to his own thoughts. He paced around the apartment, wringing his hands, chewing the skin around his nails and pulling his sweatshirt on and off as though any of it would shoo his thoughts away. There was a point that he stopped catching himself talking to thin air, and that was around the time there came a knock at the door. He recognized them right away, and they were like doctors, patting him gently and sitting him down on the sunken sofa to fix him.
Remember how great you once were, they cooed. Korea’s greatest assassin.
Sajangnim’s favorite.
Riches and power.
A name.
He wasn’t Kwon Jiyong who came from a poor town in Korea. He was the Dragon who came from Korea’s most feared mafia, and it was the Chinese kid who had brainwashed him into thinking he was less than a god. Youngbae and Hansol had both been eliminated by the Chinese mafia soon after the move from Mongkok. In return, sajangnim had sent expats to take down two in Guangzhou: the first was Wu Yifan, currently lying in his own blood on the bathroom floor; the second was Huang Zitao, whom Jiyong watched coldly from the driver’s seat as he was being shoved behind the car.
During the drive, the four gang members dove into excited chit-chat like they were at a high school reunion, questions mostly directed at Jiyong about where he’d traveled to, how he’d kept himself occupied all this time. Nevermind that they had a body stuffed in the trunk. At a stoplight, the one in the passenger’s seat — long nose, narrow face — made a vulgar joke about Jiyong and Zitao being lovers, and it won him a barrel to the head. “Shut the fuck up, Hyuksoo.” Jiyong pressed the gun harder into his temple, and with that, he established his leadership over them all. The rest of the drive was silent, and Jiyong knew then that the secret of his childhood friendship with Zitao could never slip through his lips.
Thirty minutes later, Zitao was being blindfolded and dragged out of the trunk. Jiyong could hear the panicked breathing through his nose even as he led ten paces ahead, acutely aware of Zitao’s claustrophobia and taking neither concern nor pleasure in it. Their destination was in the scraps of town, at an abandoned two-story house that the other guys had scouted out earlier. Jiyong paused in the foyer to look around with some disgust, scolding the other three for their incapacity to find something better than rotting wood and cracked concrete. He was still quick to adapt, ordering them all downstairs into the basement where the sound would be most insulated. He ignored the musty smell and squinted in the weak light, silent as he waited for the others to tie Zitao to one of the pillar supports, hands behind his back and feet together. When Soohyuk removed Zitao’s blindfold, it was then that Jiyong looked him in the face for the first time that night. Their locked eyes triggered something in him, like a coat of fire covering him and that was only half-extinguished when he backhanded Zitao in the face. The loud crack was rewarded by snickers from the others that hit too close to home, like they were suddenly at the back gates of school again, and this only irritated Jiyong more. He ordered them out, and though there was some opposition, they eventually trudged up the stairs, Jiyong watching to make sure they were out before turning to Zitao again.
“Look where you’ve gotten me,” he hissed, standing square in front of the taller man. “In this filthy basement in the middle of bumfuck China, estranged from my gang, my family... my stomach fucked from all the anxiety, talking to myself like a lunatic — going in-fucking-sane!” He was on the balls of his feet now, nearly nose-to-nose with Zitao as he wedged the other’s chin in the curve of his thumb and index finger. He ripped the tape off his mouth. “Explain yourself!”
no subject
It would happen that his past stumbled in just when he was at his worst. Zitao had gone out for the night again, and this left Jiyong dangerously to his own thoughts. He paced around the apartment, wringing his hands, chewing the skin around his nails and pulling his sweatshirt on and off as though any of it would shoo his thoughts away. There was a point that he stopped catching himself talking to thin air, and that was around the time there came a knock at the door. He recognized them right away, and they were like doctors, patting him gently and sitting him down on the sunken sofa to fix him.
Remember how great you once were, they cooed. Korea’s greatest assassin.
Sajangnim’s favorite.
Riches and power.
A name.
He wasn’t Kwon Jiyong who came from a poor town in Korea. He was the Dragon who came from Korea’s most feared mafia, and it was the Chinese kid who had brainwashed him into thinking he was less than a god. Youngbae and Hansol had both been eliminated by the Chinese mafia soon after the move from Mongkok. In return, sajangnim had sent expats to take down two in Guangzhou: the first was Wu Yifan, currently lying in his own blood on the bathroom floor; the second was Huang Zitao, whom Jiyong watched coldly from the driver’s seat as he was being shoved behind the car.
During the drive, the four gang members dove into excited chit-chat like they were at a high school reunion, questions mostly directed at Jiyong about where he’d traveled to, how he’d kept himself occupied all this time. Nevermind that they had a body stuffed in the trunk. At a stoplight, the one in the passenger’s seat — long nose, narrow face — made a vulgar joke about Jiyong and Zitao being lovers, and it won him a barrel to the head. “Shut the fuck up, Hyuksoo.” Jiyong pressed the gun harder into his temple, and with that, he established his leadership over them all. The rest of the drive was silent, and Jiyong knew then that the secret of his childhood friendship with Zitao could never slip through his lips.
Thirty minutes later, Zitao was being blindfolded and dragged out of the trunk. Jiyong could hear the panicked breathing through his nose even as he led ten paces ahead, acutely aware of Zitao’s claustrophobia and taking neither concern nor pleasure in it. Their destination was in the scraps of town, at an abandoned two-story house that the other guys had scouted out earlier. Jiyong paused in the foyer to look around with some disgust, scolding the other three for their incapacity to find something better than rotting wood and cracked concrete. He was still quick to adapt, ordering them all downstairs into the basement where the sound would be most insulated. He ignored the musty smell and squinted in the weak light, silent as he waited for the others to tie Zitao to one of the pillar supports, hands behind his back and feet together. When Soohyuk removed Zitao’s blindfold, it was then that Jiyong looked him in the face for the first time that night. Their locked eyes triggered something in him, like a coat of fire covering him and that was only half-extinguished when he backhanded Zitao in the face. The loud crack was rewarded by snickers from the others that hit too close to home, like they were suddenly at the back gates of school again, and this only irritated Jiyong more. He ordered them out, and though there was some opposition, they eventually trudged up the stairs, Jiyong watching to make sure they were out before turning to Zitao again.
“Look where you’ve gotten me,” he hissed, standing square in front of the taller man. “In this filthy basement in the middle of bumfuck China, estranged from my gang, my family... my stomach fucked from all the anxiety, talking to myself like a lunatic — going in-fucking-sane!” He was on the balls of his feet now, nearly nose-to-nose with Zitao as he wedged the other’s chin in the curve of his thumb and index finger. He ripped the tape off his mouth. “Explain yourself!”